The Totem 1979 by David Morrell

held his breath and hurried past it. Then he felt relieved. Maybe they had let the dog in. Maybe they had taken it away. He didn’t know, but he was feeling even better as he passed the last few houses on the lane. He had never been out on his own this late before, and with his fear now gone, he felt exactly as he’d thought he would, happy and excited, thrilled to be out doing this. He came to where the lane stopped and the park loomed up before him. There were trees that shut away the moon, a few thin silver streaks that filtered down upon the grass. He didn’t mind the darkness, though. This was one place where he always felt at home. He played here often, coming here with his mother nearly every day. Over to his left would be the swing sets, although he couldn’t see them. Down there straight ahead would be the swimming pool and tennis courts. And over to his right would be the stream that wound its way through town and then through here to meet up with the lake. There were ducks and fish and turtles in the lake, and sometimes he would walk there with his mother, eating lunch beside it.
    That was where he went, not directly toward the lake, but toward the stream that met up with it, toward a bend that they had walked along. They had gone there Wednesday and then yesterday, and each time they had seen it, the little animal that lived down in the reeds beside the stream. He had been the one who’d noticed it first. “Look, there, Mother, at the cat down by the water.” She’d gazed where he had pointed, and she’d said that it wasn’t a cat. ‘The bushy tail and pointed face and mask around the eyes. That’s a raccoon.” It stood there in the water, staring at them, and then slowly walked up on the bank and disappeared within the reeds. They waited, but it didn’t show itself again. It looked so soft he wished that he could touch it. “Better stay away from it,” his mother had said. “It might be wild. It likely is.” That night they had told his father what they’d seen, and he had nodded. “Sure, there might be coons still living in the city. Look at all the rabbits, moles, and possums. There’s no reason why it couldn’t. But they hardly come out in the daylight. Chances are nobody else has even seen it.” That had been exciting, the only ones who’d ever seen it. Warren had thought about it all night, and the next day he had made his mother take him there again.
    And he had seen it again. It was standing high up on the bank this time and staring at them like before, its head cocked, sitting on one hip. It had stayed there quite a while. Then it had crawled back into the reeds. His mother said there was a hole in there. That was why they always found it in this place. And Warren was even more excited, thinking he had come upon a secret. But today when he had walked there with his mother, it was gone. It hadn’t shown itself at least, and he’d been disappointed. He remembered what his father had said, that raccoons didn’t like the daylight, and he guessed that, if he’d ever have a chance to touch it, he would have to go at night. Even if he saw it in the day again, he knew that his mother would never let him touch it. So he’d have to wait until dark and go there on his own.
    At first, the thought was scary. After all, he’d never gone out by himself like that, and what was more, he knew his parents would be angry. But the thought kept working on him. He remembered what the raccoon looked like, how he’d wanted to reach down and touch it. He remembered how he’d often been tempted to sneak out when things were dark and learn what happened in the night.
    Soon the thought quit being scary. He would go on his adventure and one day announce, “Mother, by the way, do you remember that raccoon we saw? Well, one night I went down and touched it.” She would look at him, and he would smile, and then she’d know that he was bigger than she thought.
    Maybe he would even catch it. That was what